


Bud of the Hazel-Copse

by Amasa



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-12 22:46:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9094105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amasa/pseuds/Amasa
Summary: The romantic fantasy AU I've been dreaming of since the hero of Kazakhstan kidnapped the fairy of Russia. Otabek, a hero in training, has seen a fae boy in his dreams since he was ten. Inspired by the fae boy's determination, Otabek has become a full-fledged hero whose reputation only grows. Now he's on a difficult quest: he must rescue a changeling that may not want to be rescued from the heart of fae territory which no one has mapped. But when the old dream returns, and Otabek meets his friend again, his quest is thrown all into disarray. After all, dreams are only dreams. Right?





	1. Chapter 1

The first dream came when I was ten years old, training far from home to be a hero.

I was in a glade at night. Everywhere I looked, the cool, deep greens were touched by silver moonlight. I walked forward with my hands out, hesitating. I remember how damp the forest leaves felt under my feet, how the night breeze felt like someone breathing softly in and out. A sweet scent bloomed on the wind’s tracks. I could never describe it again, but my homesick heart lifted.

I heard the sounds of two feet against the grass of the clearing. They didn’t sound like they were running, so I eased closer, pushing dewy leaves aside. Around me soft lights bobbed as though waiting for me to push forward, lighting my way with a glow that waxed and waned.

The soft lights that had guided me rushed forward to illuminate the form of a small figure dancing alone. I had never seen a dance like that before, not my home village’s prized folk dances and not the sword forms I practiced at the hero training grounds every day. Nor had I ever seen such a dancer, so graceful and so precise. The lights, which I recognized with a jolt as fairy lights, ebbed and flowed with the dancer’s elegant gestures. Even the arch of a wrist, the point of a foot, the sweep of a leg downward felt beautiful past bearing. The fairy lights blurred together, forming ribbons of moonlight that glittered as the dancer leapt about the glade.

I saw the dancer’s face, finally, the face of a young boy who had not yet reached even my age. His hair was a stubborn, sunny gold that did not match the moonlight. His mouth was set in a small frown. But in his eyes, which were green and blue like the sea and not like this forest, I saw someone I recognized. I was training to be a hero. I could not say he was not doing the same thing.

He turned again without seeing me, leaping into another magnificent set of twirls so high and so graceful I thought he must have been calling the wind. That was when I saw the small fairy wings on his back, two upper and two lower that seemed to catch light and hold them. He whirled and whirled without losing energy or speed, though his chest heaved with the effort. Behind him elegant curls of moonlight traced his wake, perfect in shape and form. All the while his blue and green eyes shone like steel.

I couldn’t say how long I watched, admiring that strength and elegance and the determined spirit in those eyes, until I woke up.

When I woke up, the barracks around me were ugly brown stone as always, tapestries of a foreign flag hung across them. I threw myself into my training for the day as I did every day. But instead of thinking with longing of my home and family, I thought of the fairy boy I had visited in my dreams. It didn’t matter that I had surely invented him out of my own loneliness. If he could command moonlight with a gesture then I could command the sword with my whole body. It was possible. We were heroes after all.

The dreams did not come frequently, but always it was the same glade, the same fairy boy. I learned to recognize the trees, the flowers and the rocks, the path towards the clearing where the fairy boy always practiced. I never hid, but he never noticed me.

He leapt towards perfection breathlessly. I clambered on the rocks behind him, but I was going where he was. I would make it there.

In only a few dreams the fairy boy had learned to make the ribbons of moonlight form the ghosts of things, animals, people. A few dreams later and the figures moved and talked, scenes shifting, vanishing. Always he danced, pouring his heart out through his fingertips and the tips of his toes. His stubborn, sunny gold hair grew longer, sometimes braided, sometimes pulled into a simple tail or bun. He sprouted tiny sets of wings at his wrists and ankles. They too caught the light. He looked like a blade out of the forge, shining and lovely. The look in his eyes never changed.

I too was growing and progressing, though I couldn’t share it with him. I too was learning my dances of sword and shield, the complicated rhythm of daggers and the mighty, exhilarating rush of a greatsword. He was always alone in his glade and me, I was always alone in my training, so I could relate. My journey on the rocks of perfection was hard-fought, and I could see from his expressions, usually fierce, sometimes stern, sometimes so vulnerable I ached for him, that he battled hard also.

Ultimately I did what I had come to the hero training grounds to do: I left a hero, with all the skills I would need to do great honor to my family and country. I didn’t know yet what the fairy boy wanted to become. But I had no doubts he would become it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now a full-fledged hero with a growing reputation, Otabek is commissioned by an old man for an unusual quest: to rescue his grandson, who was kidnapped by the fae as a child.

The old man across from me reached across the pitted wooden table and grasped my hands. He had a searching look in his eyes, which were as sharp as a young man’s despite all the wrinkles that crowded them.

“You are Otabek Altin?” the old man asked again, squeezing my hands. “Slayer of the Dragon at the Crossing. Slayer of the 8-Tongued Beast of the Crag. The man who saved the Duke of Kazakh’s daughter. This is you?”

I nodded. I could feel the old man’s hands trembling slightly before he released his grip, sitting back in his chair. “You are a young lad, to have such stories to his name. Younger than I thought,” he said pointedly.

I could see he wanted a response by the intensity of his look. But I couldn’t guess what he was hoping to hear. Yes, I had killed the Dragon, and I had been sent out to take the 8-Tongued’s head before it could collect its tribute of bodies. The Duke’s daughter was only a little girl, who’d cried and cried in my arms after I rescued her.

But this was my profession; this was what I had trained for my entire childhood. My excellence as a hero came from hard-won skill, not some miraculous talent.

It was hard and pointless to explain, so instead I said, “Mr. Plisetsky, I understand that half-payment for my services has already been rendered to the Guild. Please tell me how I may assist you.”

“Why does such an old man need a hero, you mean,” said Mr. Plisetsky. He looked like he’d been a stocky fellow once, though his frame sagged with age and sorrow. Even his square jaw was still set with a young man’s stubbornness. “And such a good one! Ten years of my savings to hire a real guild hero, but it was necessary. I need a rescue, young man.”

I gave a nod of understanding. The Duke’s daughter had only been the most high-profile of my rescues. I had at least a dozen under my belt. Secretly, I preferred them to the slayings that were my usual fare.

“The subject is my grandson. My only living family. My little boy, my Yuratchka.” The old man’s mouth quivered into a smile briefly, one of great pain and loss. I wished, not for the first time, that silver words came easily to my tongue. “Yuri is his name. He was stolen from me by the fae. It has been eleven years now almost to the day.”

“By the fae?” I blinked. The old man’s curtains fluttered in the late autumn wind, a whispery rustle. “You’re sure?”

“What, boy, you never dealt with the fae?” A bushy gray eyebrow flew up. “Of course I’m sure. They left a wretched little puppet in his crib that turned to dust when I touched it. Maybe they had no child of their own to switch for him.”

I wasn’t going to tell the old man, but my dealings with the fae were indeed limited. The Fair Folk kept to themselves, aside from their rare incursions into human territory to spirit especially beautiful or talented children away. Their powerful magic and heightened senses ensured they kept their borders sealed tight as a treasury. I’d dreamed of the fae growing up, but I didn’t credit that for much.

“What did your grandson look like?” I asked.

Mr. Plisetsky took a breath and got up from the table to rattle about with the stove. He moved slowly with an old man’s pauses and grunts, but he kept his face turned away from me. “Gold hair and green eyes like his papa, rest in peace. Yuratchka liked to run and climb like any other boy. He used to boss the other children, he had such a smart mouth on him…”

He fell quiet, but I could hear him choking up. He clanked the tea kettle onto the fire, then moved to fetch cups and plates. “I knew that once the fae had him, no one but a hero could cross their borders and bring him back,” Mr. Plisetsky said quietly. “A real hero, one with training. You don’t play with the fae. So I saved and saved until I could afford a good one, one of the best.”

He didn’t say it as a compliment; he said it as a fact. I watched as he brought a cup to me, a rough piece of work without a handle, set on an equally uneven plate. His hands shook as he set the dishes down in front of me.

“So, Otabek Altin. Unfortunately I can’t say much more about where my boy might be or what he is like now. I’ve imagined many possibilities over the years,” Mr. Plisetsky said. He retrieved his own cup and plate, setting it down on the table. “I don’t know if he will remember his poor grandfather, who has prayed for him every long night these years, or even his own name. He was so young when he was taken.”

I considered the matter. Gold hair and green eyes might describe half the folk in this village, and even a detailed description of the five-year-old at the time he was taken would not help me locate a young man of sixteen. “He has no birthmark, no other feature I could use to confirm his identity?”

The tea kettle whistled, and Mr. Plisetsky hustled to retrieve it. He came back and poured the tea, fragrant steam rising from our cups. I placed my hands around mine. Warmth seeped into my fingers, relaxing my cold-stiffened joints.

“No birthmark. Sorry,” said Mr. Plisetsky as he took a seat with a pained grunt. “He used to like my pirozhkis…” He shrugged and lifted the cup to his lips. “Gods know what the fae eat.”

Any information made the scant hope of this quest a bit stronger. I noted the detail. “The fae lands by this village, are they close?”

“Too close for comfort.” Mr. Plisetsky gestured past my head towards the window. “North a ways. They have a generous territory in the old woods by the base of the mountains. You’ll know when you’re there.”

I made a sound of acknowledgment and we finished our tea as the wind whispered by the curtains. It would be a long, lonely journey into that ancient forest, but I was suited to such a trip.

Fleetingly I wondered what the fae boy of my old dreams might think of such a quest. I thought he might approve. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As hero Otabek pursues his impossible quest to locate old man Plisetsky's grandson deep in fae territory, his old dream returns. For the first time, he and the fae boy speak. They might be friends now — if the fae boy's really real. But when the dream runs out, Otabek still has his quest on his mind.

I left the village and Mr. Plisetky’s decade of grief behind me the next day. As I traveled, the nature of the woods changed quickly from something civilized to something much less touched by human hands. The trees grew in thick density, their trunks so massive I couldn’t have fit my arms around them if I’d been three men. Sometimes the trees were so thick together I couldn’t see the sky.

I’d spent a lot of time traveling since becoming a hero. I enjoyed the solitude, the opportunity to train in privacy, the beauty of the changing landscape around me. But I usually cut around old forests such as this one. I never rested easy in them and could never explain why. Even the cold air felt more ancient in this wizened wood. I was grateful for my guild stipend and the cold-weather gear I’d purchased with it — and for the company of my horse, a sweet-tempered mare with a sure step.

As I traveled, I thought of the few details Mr. Plisetsky had been able to give me about his missing grandson. Gold hair, green eyes, liked pirozhki, smart and bossy. The personality of a five-year-old was subject to change, so it was impossible to count on even those scant facts. Who knew what Yuri Plisetsky had been through since he’d been taken by the fae? They’d raised him, after all. Perhaps the bossy child had turned quiet, intimidated by the new world in which he found himself. Perhaps the smart boy’s questions had been chastised, his small voice silenced. Who could know?

I didn’t know much more about fae than the legends any village child knew. My hero training had not included much about the fae, not only because they kept to themselves, but because the fae weren’t fighters. Some said magic ran through their veins instead of blood, and their glamours and illusions could drive you to madness without you ever seeing the fae who had done it. But if you cornered one, it was widely said they would treat with you fairly. You had to be bright about it, of course — a fae would always abide by their contract, but their contracts had loopholes big enough to hang you, if you allowed it.

As for changelings, it was said that only children served their needs, the younger the better, most preferably a babe in arms. Usually the fae stole children because they were urgently needed: because the clan was small or failing, because the Court was in need of gifted blood, or because two fae were desperate to conceive and could not.

That part of the legends was cause for hope, especially as long as Mr. Plisetsky’s memory of his grandson as the brightest and handsomest lad in the village wasn’t too touched by the rosy glasses of a grieving grandfather. Surely the fae would not mistreat a clever, pretty child they wanted, one they had taken the trouble to steal despite being older than usual. They had wanted little Yuri, and if he was wanted, perhaps he was treated well or even loved.

But if he was loved, and loved his fae captors in return…

Not much was known of the stolen children. Changelings almost never returned to human lands. There was no guarantee, even if I tracked down this young man, that he would agree to return to a grandfather he might not remember. The fae were capable of wiping memories even if he did remember, and if he loved the ones who’d stolen him, why would he leave?

The more I considered the possibilities, the more I prepared myself to return to Mr. Plisetsky with bad news.

As the piercing blue skies turned to a more worrisome gray, I sought shelter against an incoming storm. I was fortunate to find a cave tucked into a stony hill; a quick sniff determined that it did not stink of bear or other dangerous animals, so I brought the mare and myself inside. It didn’t appear that I was the first to find this handy refuge, as I could see the remains of a campfire when I headed to the rear of the cave. The cave rear was located somewhat to the right of the entrance, a quirk that protected us both from the flurries of snow that had already begun to fall.

After ensuring that my mare and myself were fed and comfortable, I had nothing to do but watch the fire and wait for the storm to run its course. As the evening howled outside, I found my eyelids drooping, the fire’s warmth seeping through my thick blanket and frozen bones. Curled up on my bedroll, I surrendered to sleep.

And the dream came.

It was the same glade as always, bordered by low plants I could recognize now as hazel brush. Though the trees and flowers were still verdant, all was covered by a thin, fragile blanket of white snow. A light flurry was falling, hundreds of glimmering white points buffeted gently upon the wind. I walked the familiar path forward between two flowering bushes and perched myself by the same massive oak as always. It had been years since I dreamed of the fae boy, my silent friend who had inspired me with his determination.

I caught sight of him pushing past the low branches of a young ash tree, causing snow to fall upon his hair, which was braided at his temples but fell down his back like a sheet of gold. I had always thought it curious how my dream companion aged as I did; he’d been a boy when I was a boy, and was a young man now that I was a young man. He had a troubled, irritated look on his face.

Ignoring the snow, he began to practice, launching himself into high jumps and twirls. In the years since my last dream, his art had progressed at an astonishing rate. Moonlight enveloped his slender form like silver water, trailing his fingertips as they passed through the air. He whirled as though carried on the wind itself, his gossamer wings shimmering in the muted light. The moonlight began to coalesce into elegant, winding latticework around the grove, encasing it in a delicate dome. But halfway through, my friend stopped short in the center of the grove and brought his hands down with a shout, clenching his fists. The latticework vanished in one great wisp.

I had never seen him this upset. I’d seen him stumble, fall upon his hands and knees, accidentally ruin his own illusions by whirling through them and otherwise make missteps in his art, but he’d always gotten back on his feet and back to work. Though it broke the unspoken rules of the dream by which I had always abided, I stepped forward.

The fae raised his head with a jerk, wings flaring. His silvered eyes widened. “You cannot be here,” he hissed.

I was taken aback. I’d never heard him speak before and I’d never thought to be acknowledged by him. I stopped short, letting my outstretched hands fall to my side to assure him I meant no harm. “But I am.”

He stared at me fiercely for a moment before tossing his head back, shaking snowflakes out of his gold hair. He drew the long sheet of his hair over his shoulder, smoothing it with both hands as he spoke. “You are dreaming, mortal,” he said. “Bridging dreamers and reality is an ability I have that is most rare. You cannot be here without some share of that gift.”

“That is not a gift I know myself to have,” I said. It was surreal to exchange speech with the same fae I had watched for so long, who had grown up alongside me, who had inspired me. This was real? This could not be real. “But I have been here many times before.”

The fae’s expressive features twisted in bafflement. “Many times?” he repeated. “Impossible.”

“I have dreamed the same dream since I was a young boy,” I said. Some of the arrogance fell from the fae’s face, revealing confusion and vulnerability. “Always this glade and always you within it, working at your art.” I hesitated. “In a way, I felt we had grown up together. But I thought it was only a dream. Some lonely child’s dream, from which to draw courage.”

“Courage? From my casting?” The fae kept drawing his hands through his long hair, brow furrowed. He glanced up at me, the tiny wings on his wrists fluttering.

I nodded. “I was always alone. You were always alone,” I said. “You were training hard. I was training hard. Our arts were not similar, but your determination made me fight even harder to improve. Every time I saw you, your art had advanced in great leaps, and I thought, if I can only catch up… Then, I might name you my friend.”

The fae’s eyes were round as he stared at me, as though he had never heard such a thing as ‘friend’ before. “Did you?” he asked. “Catch up, I mean.”

I nodded. “So now, if you’ll have it, we are friends,” I said gently.

I held out my hand, and with a look of astonishment the fae grasped mine. He grinned suddenly, a look that transformed his face and made him seem closer to a real being. “We are friends. But the storm is over, and you are waking up,” he said.

I was beginning to feel the cold and wet of the snow. I held his hand anyway, looking into his eyes. His irises had a blue sheen when the light hit them, but the fae boy’s eyes were green up close, I realized. Green eyes, and hair that shone a stubborn gold even in the moonlight. Green eyes and gold hair —

I opened my mouth to speak and the world smeared away in a blink, leaving only the impression of that bright smile as I stirred before the campfire’s ashes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time, it's Otabek's fae friend who seeks him out - in the real world. Though they come from very different worlds, their fascination with one another is mutual. With his friend's help, Otabek prepares to go into the heart of fae territory to complete his quest.

I heard a crashing sound outside of the cave and came awake all at once, bolting upright on my bedroll. I’d had a thought — an important thought — but it vanished with the last of my dreams. My hand groped for my sword hilt and found it; my fingers closed. But my sweet mare didn’t seem bothered, which gave me some assurance. She was a sensitive, alert creature who’d warned me of attack more than once on other roads. If all she felt like doing was flicking her ears sleepily, then the noise could be no threat.

Cracking my neck, I reflected on my strange dream of the previous evening. Like all my fae dreams, I remembered its details precisely.

_“Bridging dreamers and reality is an ability I have that is most rare. You cannot be here without some share of that gift.”_

There were innumerable things in the world I did not know. If my fae friend spoke true, then he was real, and all my dreams of him had been real, too. I hadn’t conjured an imaginary companion out of loneliness; I had crossed the bridge he built from my dreams to his hazel copse, neither of us the wiser. All these years I had watched a real fae grow in skill and power.

But my magic skills were not my calling card; in fact, my most notable skill at magic was resisting its effects. My fae friend’s words were an enigma, and not useful to ponder at this late date, either. I readied my mare and myself to leave the cave.

“MORTAL!” I heard another crashing sound, followed by a series of fluid curses. “Hello! MORTAL!”

I glanced at my mare, who looked back at me with her sweet, placid brown eyes, showing not even the barest sign of distress. I certainly remembered that voice. I stepped towards the cave entrance and called out, “My friend?”

There was a pause in all the crashing. “YES!” my fae friend yelled back. “Come out! I want to talk to you!”

“Why not come in?”

There was a shocked silence. I tried not to smile.

“I’m not going into some smelly little BEAR cave!”

“I’m coming,” I called. I came to the fore of the cave and saw my fae friend standing in the sunlight, staring at a mess of snow-laden boughs at his feet. Above him, half-torn branches dangled from a tree. He kicked the pile in a little fit of pique.

Somehow, it was that moment that convinced me: he was real. The truth sank into me like the warmth of last night’s fire. My friend was real. In every particular, the fae standing before me was the fae of my dreams, from the long gold hair that brushed his back to the tiny wings that caught the wind at his wrists and ankles. He turned his head and shot me a hard, searching look. I stepped closer, inspecting his eyes. I could see flashes of blue as sunlight bounced through his irises, but they were green as grass, green as spring leaves. Green…

“You _are_ real,” said the fae after a moment, tilting his chin up as he stared at me. He was slight even for fae, standing barely as high as my mid-chest, though his look was so intense our difference of height seemed not to matter. “So I really must have brought you over all those times.” He had delicate features, a pointed chin and high cheekbones and a charming button nose, but the bright grin I just barely remembered was nowhere in evidence. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Neither did I. I have no magic,” I assured him.

“You have a little,” he said immediately. “Enough to find my bridge and follow it all the way, even unconsciously.” He crossed his arms, looking annoyed. “My own craft must be _sorely_ wanting if an untrained mortal could find his way to the crossing and follow it all the way to its source. I thought I was neater than this, and all these years I’ve been sloppy! Ahh, Yakov will be pissed, what a pain…”

“I have no intention of causing you trouble,” I told him. “We are friends, remember?”

The fae gave me a sideways glance from under long pale lashes, and his small moue of irritation curled up into a little smirk. “Yes, that’s true.”

My mare emerged from the cave and made a beeline to the fae. He reached out as if without thinking and stroked her mane gently. She closed her eyes. But the fae was still studying me as though more senses than his eyes were involved. I wasn’t uncomfortable, but I did wish to know if I stood up well under such inspection. But that didn’t seem the sort of thing one merely asked.

“If you’re under some manner of threat, I have no problem throwing you on the horse and riding away,” I said instead. “You don’t need to fear this Yakov fellow.”

The fae snorted, pulling his long hair over his shoulder. It was braided more intricately this morning, the thick braids at his temples bordered by several smaller ones that met in the back. Where they met, a waterfall of long braids fell. “Oh, I’m tempted.” He chewed the inside of his cheek, that edge to his searching look back again. “I want to know what you are doing here on the border of fae lands. That’s what I came to ask.”

“You weren’t just gawking?”

A flush of color rose in the fae’s cheeks. He drew himself up to his full height, wings flaring. “I was _not_ ,” he said hotly.

I held up a hand easily. “Then you were not,” I said, wondering why he’d have such an issue with the jibe. “I’m here to find a changeling that was taken ten years ago from a nearby village. Golden hair and green eyes, like yours. Name of Yuri Plisetsky.”

The fae’s face twitched. “And you’re asking _me?_ I wouldn’t know about a changeling. I’m fae.” He crossed his arms with a sullen look. I tilted my head at my mercurial friend, and without my saying a word, he elaborated just a little. “A changeling is only a changeling for a little while. They turn fae quickly. You cannot tell them apart from the born fae. We have no changelings now. Don’t mortals know how this works?”

“We don’t,” I said. “Your people are not forthcoming.”

My friend pursed his mouth thoughtfully. “That is true,” he allowed. “You are only the second foreigner I have ever met.”

“The second?” My friend seemed so curious about me, his gaze so searching, so intense, I would have thought he’d never met a non-fae before. “Who is the first?”

“Oh,” my friend waved a hand with a groan of irritation, “just the most annoying, the utter _worst_ … just this terrible pig who lives with us now. You’re a much better foreigner.”

My lips quirked at his animated delivery. My friend, watching me, appeared to come to some kind of snap decision. He lifted his chin and took a breath. “I want you to come with me,” he said grandly.

I raised an eyebrow. “Are you contracting with me?”

His tone returned to what I realized now were its normal tones of lively surliness. “That is for normal foreigners. You are my friend and so no contract is necessary. Will you come?”

A guided trip into fae territory was much, much more than I had ever anticipated. By no means could I afford to pass up this opportunity if I were to locate the changeling. Part of me wanted to press the point, require guarantees that I would be seen out just as I was seen in, but I trusted my friend. It was as though my soul remembered the path across his bridge to him and was comforted simply to be near him. I was not accustomed to feeling such trust and warmth, but all it took was a look at my friend’s face, which could not hide even one of the emotions that buffeted him over the course of a single minute, and I knew he was not intentionally doing anything to fool or hurt me.

I nodded and gestured to my mare, who had wandered a short ways away to forage in the snow. “Of course. Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: I update this fic on a weekly basis, so please feel free to subscribe for updates! In total, the fic should be 9 parts, give or take (I may split some sections due to length). I wanted to give my heartfelt thanks to those of you who have been leaving comments; I can't express how grateful I am for even just a word to let me know that you read and enjoyed the story. I treasure and reread your comments over and over, they're really motivational. So thanks for the comments and kudos. Feels good to be writing fic again :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri leads Otabek into fae territory, excited for him to meet two very important people - his family - who can help Otabek with his quest.

My friend led the way through the ancient wood as I followed on horseback.

It was the first time I had ever seen him by the light of day, I realized. The sunshine suited him beautifully. His long hair shimmered like beaten gold, strands of it whipping his face when he turned his head to check that I was still following him. The wings on his back had been changeable in color as a boy, but now they were a gauzy emerald that caught blues and yellows as the light bounced through them. He went barefoot on the snow, his graceful figure garbed in swaths of white cloth that seemed like it was spun from diamonds, and seemed not to feel the cold at all.

Though I tried to keep track of where we were headed, before long I realized we were in a part of the forest I hadn’t even glimpsed in my week’s journey here. I’d thought the woods were wild not a day out from Mr. Plisetsky’s village, but the biggest of those trees was a sapling compared to these giants.

My skin prickled as it always did in old forests. For the first time, it dawned on me that the magic in these places might be the cause of my unease. I had never thought of myself as having magic; I’d always assumed that the hero trainers would have found it and sent me on to advanced training if I did. But my friend had told me I could never have crossed from my dreams to his hazel-copse without some share of magic, which made sense.

“We’re almost there,” my friend announced, glancing back again. His brows were lowered, his mouth set in a firm line. I wasn’t sure if this was his default expression or simply the one he thought he should wear. But his serious look reminded me fondly of the soldierly dedication I had respected in him my whole life.

“Where exactly?” I asked.

“Our lands. You could not have hoped to arrive without my guidance,” he said proudly. “A fae must escort a mortal across the border. You might have crossed these grounds a thousand times and never realized where you were.”

“I realized _something_.” I rubbed an arm, willing the goosebumps to go away. “I didn’t know what.”

“Your magic’s not much, but it’s enough to know the wild places of this world,” said my friend, leading me forward with a wave of his hand. “If you can cross over from dreams, you can certainly do something as simple as feel our power. We _are_ distinctive.”

“Magic’s not my gift.”

“So you’ve said.” My friend’s gaze sharpened with interest when he looked back at me this time. “I would like to see what your gift is sometime.”

My lips tugged up in a smile. “I’d be happy to share it with you. It would be the start of a fair return for all I have seen you do.”

I caught my friend smile too, just a fierce flash of it before he darted forward.

Soon the goosebumps subsided and the magic of the fae lands settled over me like a velvet cape, heavy and sensuous. Between the ancient trees I glimpsed graceful, curving edifices that felt as much a part of the forest as an oak tree’s boughs or a river’s bank. I began to see other winged figures going about their business, but not nearly as many as I might have imagined. It struck me that for all their beauty, these sylvan lands were sparsely populated.

And there were very few children. Those fae children I did see were cosseted by their caretakers, who hovered over them with the greatest attention. If my changeling was anywhere, he was here. I felt certain of it.

Golden hair and green eyes… I stared thoughtfully at my friend’s straight back, the emerald wings which fluttered ever so slightly as he walked, making him seem like he wafted on the wind rather than pressing heel to earth. He fit the description. He matched the age. But he’d seemed almost offended when I told him my quest. He’d not blinked at the name Yuri Plisetsky, but he’d turned sullen at the word “changeling.” I realized I did not know his name, nor he mine. Neither of us had thought to ask; we shared an intimacy that went past that.

My friend stopped in front of an edifice that appeared to be built into the base of a tree whose size I could scarcely comprehend. It was wound all round with vines and flowering brush quite out of season. The tree itself seemed none the worse for the wear, soaring tall into the blue sky. My friend did not clap his hands or snap a finger, but another winged figure came forward and waited deferentially.

“We’ve arrived,” said my friend. He looked excited and perhaps a bit anxious. “You can leave your mare with our animal handler. She’ll be safe.”

My mare showed no sign of discomfort or fear, as though she ambled through ancient magic into fae lands as a matter of course. I left her in the attendant’s care, surprised by their deference. “My friend, where are you taking me?” I asked.

There were many curved windows set within the building through which sunlight poured, and the floor felt soft and spongy underneath, though no dirt touched my friend’s feet. I saw many flowering plants within, and woodland creatures freely roamed the halls. Blue roses bloomed in crevices and the air was faintly and pleasantly sweet.

My friend threw me a sideways look equal parts pleased and nervous. His cheeks were flushed, and he looked proud of himself in a way that wasn’t arrogant but instead almost shy. “You’re my first friend. And you’re mortal. I want you to meet my…” He rolled his eyes. “My family. I guess. And you can ask them about your changeling. They would know.”

He might as well have reached a hand through my chest and squeezed my heart. The expression on his face would have tugged affection from a stone. Between that and the tremendous help he was offering me, I was moved beyond my ability to express. “Thank you,” I said, and laid a hand on his shoulder. He jerked slightly at the touch, and his wings gave a flutter, but his smile curled up anyway.

Eventually we passed beneath a great arch made of twining branches, blue roses gracing the arch at its topmost height. There followed a large chamber comfortably scattered with many small seating areas. Sunlight gave the room a hazy glow. I imagined that the leafy sconces would hold fae lights when night fell. Towards the rear of the room I saw two heads bent close together, one silver as the moon, the other black as ink.

“Vitya! Piggy! HELLO!” my friend called, striding forward with his chest out. “I’ve come with my FRIEND!”

The two heads sprang apart. One was fae — no, Fae, I thought, for I felt a shock of raw power that stopped my footsteps even here in the heart of this magic-drenched realm. He had wide, guileless eyes as blue as a songbird’s throat. His hair was as long as my friend’s, a river of silken moonlight left to drape over an elegant shoulder. His pearl-colored, opalescent wings flared as he came to his feet with an indrawn breath of delight, a hand over his mouth, eyes dancing.

The one next to him had no wings. His jet-black hair was much shorter, though it was just beginning to curl under his ears and at the nape of his neck. His gentle, dark brown eyes were set in a handsome, fine-boned face. To my confusion, I felt power from him as well, a prickle along my skin like little darts of lightning. Now that I knew what it was, it didn’t make me uneasy, but it was still disconcerting. He remained seated, hands resting on his knees, and cocked his head with a warm smile.

“Welcome home, Yuri.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You ever witness someone having a fight with their family that has nothing to do with you but you're just kind of standing there? Yeeeep.

“Yuri?” I said, looking at my friend. 

“Yes, it’s my name,” said my friend, rolling his expressive green eyes. He pointed at the dark-haired man in front of him, who had the look of affectionate patience one might wear with a wayward sibling. “It’s Piggy’s name too. Half the children in the mountain villages are named Yuri.”

The other Yuri didn’t appear to notice or care about the less-than-flattering nickname my friend had used. I didn’t see why my friend would call the other Yuri a pig; his figure was as slender as my friend’s, though he was clearly a man grown. The seated Yuri regarded me as steadily as I him, though his air of warmth and welcome never faltered.

“We are very happy to see you here, human,” enthused the silver-haired fae beside him. He reached out for my hands and clasped them, which I allowed. Once I had processed his shocking beauty, I noticed the delicate circlet atop his head, a simple design of silvered wood fashioned into vine-like form and twined together. Then I realized I was not allowing anything, for indeed this must be the king of the fae lands here. 

He pressed one hand over his heart, releasing mine. “My name is Viktor. The fae lands here are in my care. And this is my beloved and brilliant consort, Yuri.” Next to him, the dark-haired Yuri colored, smiling shyly. “He is also a human!” Viktor looked delighted by this fact, glancing back and forth between me and his consort. “You have very little power, though. How interesting.”

“My skills are not magical in nature,” I felt compelled to explain, though Viktor’s joyous attitude made it hard to take offense.

“What he has is strong,” my Yuri interjected, as though he’d taken the offense I hadn’t. “Strong enough to cross my bridges from his own dreams without ever knowing the path. Is that strong enough for you?”

“Extraordinary.” Viktor beamed, magnificently benign.

“But he came to _me_ ,” my Yuri bit out. “I didn’t go haring off on some ridiculous adventure and drag him home as some kind of piggy prize.”

“I came because I wanted to,” the consort Yuri corrected gently. “Viktor did not force me.”

“We didn’t have need of you,” my Yuri hissed. “Our magic is more than enough to heal the damage. Your human power can scarcely work our lands.”

“Yuri,” said Viktor, taking my friend’s face in his hands. Though the move seemed gentle, I noted that the grip was firm - not threatening, but firm. “The longer my consort remains here, the more his magic will change to suit the land. We are blessed to have him here.”

My Yuri twisted out of his grip, lower lip jutting up as his brows lowered.

It felt like the correct time to say something. Anything. My mind always went towards problems and worked at them until I could produce a solution; it was one of the reasons being a hero had always been a natural choice for me. “May I ask, what is the damage you speak of?”

“Of course you may ask, honored guest,” said Viktor. But some of what appeared to be his naturally jovial nature fell away, leaving the elegant lines of his face bare like exposed marble. “It is a sad issue that has plagued us for a generation now. Something about the land has withered, taking its hand from us. With it went our fertility, our children. Births are so rare now that we have been forced to resort to changelings to keep our population up, such as our young Yuri here.”

He waved a hand to indicate my friend. Yuri went from white to hot red in an instant. “I am not a changeling!” he shouted. “And if you had eyes in your head for anything but your new beloved, you would know that! I am fae!” His wings flared with his fury, even the small ones at his ankles and wrists shaking. “I have been fae my entire life! How dare you!”

From the look on his face, Viktor knew he’d made a grave misstep. “Yuri-”

“Forced to resort! What a disaster for you it has been to have me here!” Yuri stomped his foot as though he might crack open the earth beneath it. “A nightmare! With my magic that outshines even _yours_!”

“No one questions your talent,” said the other Yuri calmly, as though he’d weathered thousands of my friend’s storms.

My Yuri scoffed, tossing his golden hair back. “One would have to be more of an idiot than you are a pig! A glutton for the magic of _our lands_!” Dropping the other Yuri from his attention like a sack of rocks, he flung a finger out at Viktor in accusation. “Who heals the land as it dreams? _Me._ Who casts the illusions that keep our miserable people entertained as their hearts shrivel up for lack of little fae litters? _Me._ Who has put up with your disgusting sentimentality and this, this latest, this, this-” Yuri sputtered briefly. “This folly? _Me!_ How lucky for _you_ that I don’t need your approval and you have your blessed perfect mate. And surely no need of _me!_ ”

Viktor’s blue eyes widened. There was something highly sympathetic about him; one could not help but feel what he felt. I didn’t know if it was a fae quality or something more personal, but I could feel his guilt and pain, for himself, for hurting someone he loved like a brother, for his people and their hopelessness and fear. “Yuri, you know I don’t mean-”

Yuri turned on his heel, still piercingly graceful even in the midst of his pique, and walked out. I followed after him as he stomped through the hallway, his fists clenched at his side.

I had not intended to ask him anything. Yuri was clearly in a temper and I could wait until he calmed down. But Yuri began to speak without my prompting.

“I don’t remember anything before I was brought here,” he bit out in a low voice. “I was very young, some slovenly human grub before the age of memory. I turned fae very quickly. Viktor said, he _used_ to say, he never saw any child change so quick as I did. Take to the magic here so well.”

He took a sharp left, charting a new course through the winding paths carved into the tree. I could tell we were not headed the way we came, though where Yuri might be taking me in his temper was beyond me. But I trusted him.

“And Viktor, he is our king, our purest blood, a line of magic and power unbroken from the First to the Present. All of that, and I am as exceptional as he is.” Yuri shot me a stormy look, his green eyes dark. “Without the benefit of his pedigree. I will surpass him, I know that too. He is tired of this role. He wants to settle down, probably plant a whole garden full of fae seedlings with that pig of his, once the land is healed.”

“You should not call him a pig,” I said. “He seems a kind soul.”

“Who cares? He is so hungry for our magic he slops at it like a pig at the trough,” Yuri said contemptuously. “His human power is good for human problems. I didn’t understand at all why Viktor brought him here, too aged to change, full of human magic. Viktor swears his magic will change to fit our lands and the piggy spends all day casting, resting, and casting again to hasten the process. As if you can hurry such a thing.”

Yuri took another few turns in the labyrinth. Despite my best efforts at noting landmarks here and there, the endless wooden halls looked much alike after a time.

“And is the land healing?”

“It is slow work,” Yuri said shortly. “And our people wail and despair as though their children were dying instead of never born.” He gave a shrug and turned one more corner. We passed underneath another open arch, and within it a wide, gracious room that looked mostly unused. The floor was beaten earth, cleared of obstacles, and sheets of mirrored glass lined either side. I had never seen so much mirrored glass in one place before and tried not to gape.

Instead, I looked at Yuri, who was tying back his hair with a ribbon he’d caught up from a basket at the side of the arch. He understood my question from the look on my face. “I lied,” he said, coloring slightly. He raised his chin. “There is one thing I remember. If I’m the changeling,” he looked as though he might gag on the word, “you are seeking, perhaps this will confirm or deny it.”

He took a deep breath and clenched his fists, then exhaled, releasing them. With his exhalation, some of the tension left his body. He stepped forward and raised his arms, and I pressed back against the wall to give him space. I recognized his elegant pose as one he used to begin his illusions, precisely calculated for beauty and appeal, as though his grace made his natural magic even stronger. No wonder he was so powerful, I thought.

He closed his eyes, long lashes glimmering against his pale cheeks, and leapt into his dance.

 


End file.
